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The streets of Gotham were already cloaked in shadows during the day, given their narrowness, but in the night everything seemed infinitely more sinister. It was why hardly anyone sane would be out at such an hour; the monsters came out to play as soon as the sun set.
Perhaps that was why he operated in the dead of night, why he took such delight in the terror wrought upon by his stroll through the shadows and into the dingy streetlights, glinting metal visible only when he willed it.
Judge, jury, executioner. His streets, his rules.
This particular jackass thought not only was drug-trafficking allowed, but that he could sell children as sex slaves on the side for some pocket change. The familiar, ice-cold grip of fury encased his heart, sending a fine tremor through his body. Nothing spoke to him like the bone-deep fear his victims all shared in common. That whirlwind of emotion associated with the knowledge of death bearing down upon you.
Justice…justice spoke to him more than all else.
“Red Hood…”
His new identity, the new face to his vigilantism. Against his wishes, the reminder, no matter how old, sent a sharp sting of hurt through his heart. The reminder that the Robin mantle was no longer his. And like always, that sharpshooting pain of betrayal came followed by a dark, bitter fury, burning low and fiercely in his gut.
Thrown out, replaced, forgotten. The infamous, insignificant Robin.
His fingers tightened around the trigger of his weapon. Percanto certainly noticed.
“H-Hood, I…I swear I didn’t do anything-”
He couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, most likely scaring the man even further. The sheer absurdity of the idea that he would waste his time on a bastard like Percanto without good reason was enough to have him doubled over, his mirth surprising even himself.
When was the last time he had laughed?
The thought had him sobering rather quickly. Out of all the things he had lost, so many nights ago, his humour was the one thing he probably missed the most. Or so he kept telling himself that, mostly because the long nights wouldn’t seem so…lonely if he could make himself laugh.
“Save it, you lousy bag of dicks, I don’t have time for this,” he finally responded, tone casual even as he aimed the gun. He was proud of himself for establishing the whole ‘run and it’ll only be worse’ shtick with the scum that haunted the slums, for it was that very notion that kept Percanto kneeling at his feet.
The rush of euphoria at the sight nearly had him reeling; this, this is what it took to bring true justice to the streets of Gotham. Not what he preached, so thoroughly and illogically-
He hissed as his gun was knocked out of his hand by something sharp and cold to the touch, the brief second contact letting it slice open a long, paper-thin cut through his gloves, across the expanse of his palm.
Huh. So was the saying think of the devil and he shall appear?
Percanto clearly saw his chance, and without so much as another whimper was up and running through the alleyways that ran adjacent with the underground district of the city. Soon, any sounds he made faded into nothingness, leaving him without a lead.
With an over-exaggerated sigh, he turned around to face the looming figure that stood among the shadows.
“You do realize it’s gonna take me at least two hours to find his sorry ass again?”
“Come home.”
Always straight to the point, Jason couldn’t help but think to himself, barely suppressing the snort.
Barely suppressing the pang of desire that echoed through the hollowed chambers of his heart.
“And where exactly is home?” He sneered in response, turning his full attention to Batman. They both knew exactly what he meant; back to Wayne Manor, to where he had been living. Up until he had been forced to vacate the Robin mantle. Up until Batman replaced him with some upper-class fuck.
The embers of a long-burning resentment had reignited with a fiery passion, quickly burning through the oxygen in his lungs and rendering him breathless. And suddenly, the urge to hurt amplified tenfold.
“Stop being ridiculous, Wayne Manor will always be your home.”
Jason could make out the sheer frustration stowed away in the growled declaration. He knew that it, to some degree, bothered the man that one of his foster kids felt the need to leave his care, especially so young. But he also knew that it bothered him far much more that said foster kid created a new identity and continued the ‘mission’, in a much more effective manner.
He couldn’t stop himself from wondering if he was hurting over the loss of a son, or his regret for his decision in cutting him loose.
“Please, we both know it stopped being my home the minute you fucking took the suit from me. Took Robin from me,” he crossed his arms against his chest, the hidden weapons offering him a touch of solace. He was armed. He could fight, if need be, because one thing was for fucking sure.
He wasn’t going back.
Reaching up, he pulled the helmet off his head, tucking it into the crook of his arm. He still wore a domino mask, in case some lucky bastard somehow managed to get his hood off. For a long moment, the two of them just stood there in the barely lit street, abandoned and chilled by the winter winds. Thought it had yet to snow, it wouldn’t be too long before the streets were white and icy. Even more reason to eliminate as many assholes as he could before things got rough. Well…rougher. Supporting himself was getting harder, given all his income went towards rent. He hadn’t had dinner in a few days, let alone a warm meal.
It was as the thought of food crossed Jason’s mind that Batman’s shoulders suddenly sagged, as if whatever mental argument he’d been having with himself had drained the persona straight out of him. Jason wondered what could’ve possibly shook the man’s resolve so badly, and whether or not it was enough to make him leave.
For the umpteenth time that night, he wondered what the man under the cowl was thinking.
And then he spoke, tone showcasing just how tired and weary the man was. As if the matter of Jason himself tired him to the bones. Well, given the havoc he’d wrecked throughout the crime scene of Gotham throughout the last two years, he’d certainly say he was a force to be reckoned with. Especially for the Dark Knight, one of the only men actively trying to derail Jason’s operations.
“I don’t expect your forgiveness, Jason, I just…I just want you to come home. Where I know you’re safe, and warm, and fed-“
“Stop it,” the words spat out were venomous, sharpened by months of bitterness and anger. Something splintered within him, like a forgone barrier just barely holding back his animosity. Vaguely, he wondered if he could ever put a lid back on it. He realized he probably never could. “Stop acting like my father, Bat, because you’re not! You never were!”
He wanted to say he didn’t feel a flicker of regret when Bruce physically flinched, as if instead of yelling Jason had punched him in the gut. No, the Red Hood did not feel guilty about anything. Not death, not pain, and not certainly not Bruce Wayne. He couldn’t afford guilt, not anymore. Not after two years of roughing it out, of late nights and thugs.
Yet there it was, that small prickle of agony, no doubt from the forgotten remains of a young boy who had idolized the man in front of him.
“That’s not fair,” Bruce finally managed, and despite all his grandeur the words came out strangled. “You know why I had to take the mantle from you, Jason, you were out of control! The constant bursts of anger, the cruelty, the twisted sense of justice…I took Robin away from you because you no longer stood for what the costume stood for-”
“Bullshit,” Jason finally exploded, the word echoing throughout the street. “I no longer stood for you, and you hated it! You hated the fact that I finally realized your methods, your brand of justice, was all wrong. You didn’t, and still don’t, have what it takes to clean this city!”
Bruce moved closer, almost mechanically, and Jason found himself raising his guns involuntarily, a defense against whatever the man thought he could do to him. He knew that shock-inducing batarangs were now a part of the arsenal, and knew they could be dangerous. They could knock him unconscious if used right.
Taking a slow step backwards, he kept the guns trained on Gotham’s vigilante, and found himself continuing to speak in bitter tones.
“You took away the one thing, the one fucking thing, that mattered the most to me, and you expect me to, what? Come back to the manor? Fuck off, Bruce, I never needed you…I never will.”
As the distance between them closed, Jason could see the genuine pain in the man’s eyes, but he forced himself not to care. If he’d been expecting a compliant young boy when he finally managed to track him down, then he had another thing coming; he’d abandoned him. Bruce Wayne had left him in the dust, to suffer alone.
Memories filled with cackling, bloodied limbs, and burning flames invaded his mind all too quickly, intertwining to form a coherent thought. With a pained grunt, he reached up to grasp fruitlessly at his head, the helmet preventing him from grabbing his hair like he normally would.
“Jason, are you-”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, angry at the man for trying to act like he cared. He was angry at himself for relapsing like this, for allowing the memories to come flooding back. The nightmares had never left, sure, but the random flashes that came out of the blue? They had stopped a few months ago.
“Do you still get those…flashes?” Bruce, damn him, was quick to make the connection between the pained expression on the youth’s face to the way he had instinctively hunched his shoulders inwards, as if trying to disappear into himself.
“They stopped for a bit, excuse me for being surprised at their triumphant return,” Jason spat, misinterpreting Bruce’s tone for something accusatory. He turned away to try and regain his bearings, to regain his proverbial footing. Unbeknownst to Bruce, their verbal spars normally drained all the energy out of him. As if going word for word with the man burnt through the anger and resentment that otherwise was eternal and unyielding.
“Look, what the hell are you even doing here without the replacement or Nightwing?” He couldn’t help but ask, throwing the man a withering glare as the throbbing in his brain finally subsided. “Don’t they know better than to let you out alone?”
Ignoring the jab at his character, Bruce crossed his arms and stared at the man in front of him. No, not a man…his son. His son, his Jason, grown and weathered and angry. So, so angry, at him. With good reason.
The last thought sent a painful jolt through his body.
Many nights since he’d made the decision, Bruce had stayed up wondering if it had been the right decision. Following Jason’s abduction and rescue, the boy had, rightfully so, began to suffer through a mess of nightmares and trauma-induced bursts of anger. Leslie had observed that the trauma he’d faced at the hands of the Joker only amplified Jason’s existing anger issues, and warned him that sooner or later it would affect his performance on the field. Bruce had ignored the warning, thinking he knew his son better, but sooner came rather than later. Jason’s field tactics had grown more and more violent, finally culminating in a full-on beat-down that had left the drug-dealer he’d been pursuing in a catatonic state. Then, and only then, did he and Dick step in, and had been shocked at the venom-laced words he’d shot back at them.
‘He deserved to die.’
And so, with a heavy heart, Bruce had taken away the Robin mantle, citing Jason’s anger issues as a huge problem in regards to crime-fighting. Jason had fought the decision furiously, insults flying left and right, but he had stayed. He had stayed in the manor, avoiding everyone except Alfred, who made sure the boy ate and stayed out of excessive trouble.
All of that had changed the day Tim Drake had shown up at their doorstep.
He had come armed with hundreds of pictures, of Batman with both Robins, and had demanded to know why he was suddenly out there without a partner. Bruce, for all his years of upholding two identities, had been completely floored by the realization that the scrawny kid had worked out who was Batman, and who had been Robin. Dick had entered the room, home for a bit to again try and reason with his younger brother, and had been roped into a half hour discussion about why he should take on the Robin mantle again. ‘Batman needs a Robin’, he had insisted.
None of them had noticed Jason, hidden behind the corner and watching the trio.
One thing had led to another, and Tim had somehow procured a homemade Robin costume and had found him on patrol one day; together, the two of them had gotten out of a tough spot, and Bruce finally saw the reasoning behind his determination.
For all his days, Bruce would never forgot the fallout of Tim being named the third Robin.
He wondered if Jason had known it had been coming. Maybe that’s why, for the first time in months, the boy had wandered down into the Batcave. Had seen Bruce handing over an official costume to the younger boy, with an uncharacteristic smile on his face.
Had flown at Tim with what looked like years of bottled up fury, his intent clear and fists already raised. By the time Bruce had recovered from his shock and had pulled Jason off of Tim, the latter was bloodied and unconscious.
For the first time since his arrival, Bruce had truly yelled at Jason, composure cracked and emotions bleeding. To this day, he still had nightmares about the emotionless look in his eyes, the coldness in his tone when he had spoken.
“I never meant anything to you, did I?”
The words had been enough to render his mind useless, and unable to move, Bruce had watched Jason turn around and walk out of the cave. Out of the manor. Into the streets, where he wouldn’t be seen until a month later, when the Red Hood had shown up.
And now, two years later, here they stood.
“I’m not in any danger,” Bruce finally responded, sounding firm. Did he believe it? Yes, but only until Jason let loose a humourless chuckle. Then, and only then, did his resolve waver, and with weary eyes he watched his son pace the width of the street-way.
“You think I’m above hurting you, Bat? I’m not, not really, remember? Anger issues? Incapable of being your sidekick? The vigilante-”
“But always my son,” Bruce interrupted, stepping closer still. “Always.”
“Can I ask you something? And expect an honest answer?” Jason suddenly asked. No matter how much he tried to deny it, there was a part of him that had always…wondered. The part of him who woke him up screaming in the middle of the night, tears staining his cheeks and chest heaving. The part of him who kept him buried deep in his own darkness, lost among the broken fragments of the memories of a young boy filled with hope. He was no longer that boy, not after The Joker happened.
The Joker. The psychotic jackass who’d kidnapped him, beat him senseless. Had Bruce not shown up, and the charges not been set up when they had and not a second sooner, he’d be dead. A dead Robin.
Was that worse than an angered ex-Robin?
“Anything,” Bruce’s response cut through the reverie, and Jason almost laughed at the sheer desperation the man was no longer hiding from him. He would’ve laughed, had it not been for the palpable tension in the air.
“The Joker. If he had killed me, if those bombs had gone off and blown me to pieces, would you have killed him? For me?”
There it was.
Now out in the open, the ever-burning question that had plagued both of them since the night Bruce had brought home Jason’s battered body. Since the rift between father and son had first formed.
Bruce had froze, his limbs locking up and posture straightening out. The same question…his son had asked him the one question he had never wanted to give an answer for. Out of all the questions Jason could’ve asked, he asked the one Bruce himself couldn’t answer.
No…it was not that he couldn’t form an answer. He knew what his answer would be, knew what he would say if ever asked. But he also knew how it would sound. What it would imply.
How Jason would take it.
And now here he stood, in the very position that would force the words from his mouth. Force him to tell his estranged son that no, he wouldn’t have killed the Joker. He would’ve beaten the holy hell out of the bastard, but he wouldn’t have taken the killing shot. There would be no coming back from that, Bruce knew, but that’s not what Jason wanted to hear. That wasn’t what he needed to hear.
But Jason already knew that. He had always known that.
Rearing backwards, he shook his head and forced a sneer onto his face to hide the onslaught of disappointment. Bruce never cared enough to break a single rule for him. He, really, hadn’t meant that much. He’d been the poor man’s Dick Grayson.
He had been nothing.
“Pathetic,” he snarled. “Fucking pathetic. You come out here, preaching your love for me and how badly you want me to come home, and yet can admit that you wouldn’t have killed him? You’re pathetic.”
“Jason, that’s not fair-”
“The hell it ain’t!” He cut him off, beyond reasoning and simply wanting to leave. He’d had enough of the Bat for the night, enough of the gut-wrenching memories associated with the man he once called ‘dad’. He slipped his helmet back on, glancing up at the sky before back at the man standing before him. “I’m not even worth breaking one, lousy rule. Fuck off, Batman, the next I see you I won’t hesitate to fucking shoot.”
With that, he shot off into the darkness the alleys provided, grappling hook out and swinging before Batman could even register the ache in his heart. Jason tried his damn hardest not to let the pain settle into his chest, knowing he still had a job to do. He tried his best to forget all the suffering, the loneliness, the child who had grown up too fast. He tried to forget the happiness that came with being taken in by Bruce Wayne, that had come with the Robin legacy. The happiness in finally having what he could call a family. Somewhere behind him, Bruce was trying to do the same.
Dad.
Son.
It was a shame neither of them were successful.